Nude is beautiful. Just not on the furniture, please and thanks.

There was a meme all over Facebook this week about a woman who reportedly wrote a response to a bulletin posted at a gym. I  do not know if any of this is true, so the journalist in me resisted posting it to my wall.

Also, many of the memes included a nude photo of French model Tara Lynn (pictured here) sitting in a wicker chair. While she is certainly beautiful and I appreciate tasteful nudity, I don’t like naked people on furniture. It’s an phobia I have about ass-matter-transfer, one of the multitude of reasons I would never be comfortable at a nudist colony, and totally not relevant to this discussion.

Any old hoo, this is the text of the meme:

A while back, at the entrance of a gym, there was a picture of a very thin and beautiful woman. The caption was “This summer, do you want to be a mermaid or a whale?”

The story goes, a woman (of clothing size unknown) answered the following way:

OK. There’s a lot going on in that meme, and it has generated a lot of discussion.

For some, it’s been eye-opening that beauty does come in all shapes and sizes.  

For others, this seems to say that it’s OK to be obese, no matter what the consequences to your health. (I follow this blogger on Twitter and she’s smart and funny. I totally get where she’s going here.)

My take, for what it’s worth, is this: If some staffer at a gym really posted that flyer, it’s a condescending way to isolate and shame women and it sends the wrong message. In other words, that person is a douche.

Women should not be shamed into fitness because of their appearance, ever. This is not a way to incentivize exercise, at least it’s not for me. The horrific memories of school gym classes come flooding back and that is one of the reasons I’ve always felt like I don’t belong in a fitness facility. Every gym teacher I ever had was Sue Sylvester. True story.

But I am trying to convince myself now that I do belong. I remind myself that I do not swim to look prettier in my swimsuit. I swim, despite all the cellulite jutting out for the world to see, to improve my health.

To the woman who wrote the response that has now been tweeted and liked around the Internet, I am almost there with you. Whales are not overweight and they are certainly not unattractive. They are powerful, graceful and fit. Mermaids are not real and certainly not aspirational. I want to enjoy food, drinks and ice cream, too. I want to embrace my curves. But I also know that too much “cultivation” is going to kill me.

If losing weight has the side benefit of looking better, then that’s great. But the goal for me is to alleviate my arthritis pain and help my mobility. My current weight is impeding my career and my personal life. I have no illusions that I will ever be thin or look like the images in magazines, which are totally unrealistic and, frankly, unattractive.

Fifteen years ago, I was fit and active. I walked more than 20 miles a week and had no problems with blood sugar, blood pressure, cholesterol etc.

Still, I was 40 pounds over the weight I am supposed to be for my height.

Tara Lynn (with clothes) is gorgeous and curvy. And a size 12, from what I've read.

I have always had a round ass and chunky thighs, and no matter how much shame is shoved down my throat, I always will be curvy. I was not OK with that when I was younger. I loathed the way I looked and those body images haunt me to this day. It’s part of the reason that, as I became older and less active, I piled on so much weight — I found comfort in food that eased the pain of never feeling pretty enough.

People who do not have emotional issues with food will never understand that statement. Those who do know exactly what I mean.

While I was tempted to hit a bakery like a Pro-Bowl-caliber lineman hits a quarterback, I refrained. Mentally I cursed myself for still being tempted to ease my soul’s suffering with chocolate, but I held firm in my resolve, deciding instead to drag my ass to water aerobics.

You know, because exercise relieves stress.

Or so I’ve heard.

The serene feeling that I typically get from working out in the pool was short-lived when, at 5 minutes after the class started, entered the Loud Hillbilly family. Mom. Two daughters. And a few minutes later, dad.

Teenage Hillbilly and Mr. Hillbilly were relatively quiet.  Probably because Mrs. Hillbilly and Baby Hillbilly never, ever STFU.

With a voice as twangy as a bluegrass guitar, Mrs. Hillbilly regaled us with stories of her dog’s poop  (frequent), her hot flashes (also frequent), and what she thought of this season’s contestants on “Survivor” (Not a fan of Coach, apparently).

No filter.  Just a steady  stream of inane, random consciousness.  Apparently she hasn’t discovered the proper outlet for that sort of thing: Twitter.

Baby Hillbilly, who I guess to be age 12, takes after the maternal side of the family. She also spouted anything that popped into her brain while simultaneously asserting that she was “winning” at each exercise we performed.

Oh child. That Charlie Sheen catchphrase was soooo last spring.

Also, Mrs. Hillbilly, may I extend a parenting tip:  It’s a lousy idea to bring your daughter to the pool and then ridicule her about how much cake she ate that day in front of an exercise class. Way to give Baby Hillbilly body image issues.

The locker room was also not a safe haven, since Baby Hillbilly wailed like an injured cat as she sang in the shower.  I’ve watched a lot of bad American Idol auditions over the years. This girl would be featured in a promo spot.

I dried off — and thought about just putting my clothes on over my wet bathing suit — and got the hell out.

I was more stressed when I left the gym than when I arrived. And I was plotting ways to drown hillbillies, which is not good for my mental health or my continued standing in a free society.

I can only hope they are summer-only-discount members, and as soon as the outdoor pool closes next week, they will disappear.

If not, I will have to find another form of low-impact exercise.  My journey to find endorphins through exercise instead of cake cannot take another 50 minutes episode of the Loud Hillbilly Family.

I know I wanted to find better ways to pay homage to the hard work that is dieting. But honestly, after weigh in yesterday I was starving, and I needed to run an errand for work, so my husband and I ended up in this amazing little downtown bakery and I ended up with an almond croissant (similar to the one in this photo) in my belly.

Not gonna lie: It was abso-freakin-lutely fantastic.

We also took home a loaf of ciabatta bread because this bakery makes the most wonderful breads, and our carb-loving selves could not resist a fresh loaf of wonderful.

I spent the afternoon trying, unsuccessfully I am sure, to burn off that croissant. One hour in the pool doing laps and aerobics until my limbs were fatigued probably only worked off the almond silvers and didn’t put a dent in the butter layers of the pastry, but it did make me feel good.

The sun was warm, the water was cool and the sky was clear. Being in that water felt amazing. I can work every muscle without fear of hurting my arthritic joints, I can bend and stretch in ways that are nearly impossible on dry land. In the pool, the weight that binds me is almost a plus because it adds to my buoyancy. For that hour, I felt weightless and free.

When I got out of the pool, my muscles were sore, but my joints weren’t in any pain. I spent an hour by the pool reading and just soaking in the glory of a late summer afternoon. It was a better reward than that tasty croissant.

Yeah, I just typed that and meant it. Stunning. Especially to me.

After I left the gym, I had to go back downtown to finish my work errand, and that meant a half-mile walk. After the workout in the pool, it felt good to use my legs on land and think about how they are getting stronger and feel lighter with 20 pounds off. My feet, however, were on fire.

I may need to spend a day shopping for a great pair of walking shoes that aren’t ugly. Not a simple task.

Later I went to the grocery store and I was really hungry. That is normally a dangerous situation. But I kept thinking about the ciabatta bread and planning what could I do with it that won’t blow our diet. Just because it’s Saturday shouldn’t mean a daylong calorie and fat indulgence. But damn it, I need to eat something satisfying.

So I bought almost every veggie that I love: Baby spinach leaves, romaine lettuce, green and red peppers, grape tomatoes, English cucumbers. To sweeten things up, I bought berries and melon. Then I bought our favorite peach/mango salsa and every lean deli meat that appealed to me: turkey, ham, roast beef.

So our Saturday night feast was like our own personal Subway sandwich bar. We loaded the soft, crusty bread with all these veggies, meats and mustard and enjoyed crispy raw veggies, multigrain chips and salsa as side dishes.

For a special treat, we had Skinnygirl margaritas muddled with fresh blackberries. Oh. My. Mercy. That? Was one of the best cocktails I’ve had in a very long time. Low calorie and high antioxidants. Booze just became a healthy choice.

Life is damn good.

Every bite of the food was delicious and every sip of the cocktail was refreshing. I felt indulgent but not guilty, because this was great food  and drinks that we really enjoyed, but they were much better choices than what we were making just a few weeks ago.

And that, after all, is the only way I will ever lose weight and keep it off.

I am contemplating going to a yoga class today. I like yoga, but with my bad knees it can be tricky. And at my gym, there are mirrors on two of the studio walls that are hard to avoid — if I don’t get one particular spot in the back of the room, I have to stare at myself while trying to do the poses.

And when I watch myself as I practice yoga, it looks a lot like this:

This seems a little harsh.

It only motivates me to want to tell this sweaty bitch to lighten the fuck up already.

(Source: des051195, via imgfave)

None of them appeared to be any fitter than they were last summer. That was both a little disturbing and comforting.

My favorite instructor was teaching. I’d been working out in the pool on my own all week. I was so ready for this.

I was so not ready for this.

After the first few runs/jumps/kicks down the pool and back, my legs were on fire.

I wanted to limp out to a deck chair and cry after 10 minutes, but I am a pretty competitive person, so there was no way I was going to quit.

Especially since the 70-year-old lady next to me had told me she’s walked two miles on the treadmill before class.

It’s on now, old lady. There’s no way I’m punking out in front of SuperGranny.

So I pushed on through, trying to concentrate on the 70s rock tunes that were blaring through the speakers.

Thank you, Baybee Jeebus, for sending me Steve Perry.

As our peppy, former-cheerleader, class instructor was barking out orders, I closed my eyes and jammed along with Journey.

Downhill ski and twist, four times…

“Any way you want it, that’s the way you need it…”

Kick to the front, four times…

“She loves to laugh, she loves to sing, she does everything…”

Kick to the back, four times…

“She loves to move, she loves to groove, she loves the lovin’ thing”

Frog jumps, four times…

“All night, all night, oh every night, hold tight, hold tight, oh baby hold tight…”

And I did. I held tight. I made it.

By the grace of hot guitar licks and my own determination, I held my own against a woman twice my age who had already done a workout. Yay for me and my pathetic little baby steps toward fitness.

And thanks, Steve Perry. You are full of the awesome.

Monday night, Hoylier had a dinner meeting. So that, I reasoned, was a great opportunity for me to go to the gym right after work.

Except this is only a two-day work week for me, so I had lots of work things to tidy up.

And since Hoylier didn’t get home before me, I had to feed our three hungry mutts.

And since he was eating dinner out, I had to fend for myself for supper. So I warmed up leftovers. Then I had to rinse my dish. Then I had to empty and re-load the dishwasher. Then I had some laundry to hang and fold.

You know you are really putting something off if laundry sounds like a more attractive alternative.

So I finally changed into my gym clothes and was able to pry myself away from a very special episode of the Real Housebitches of Orange County and drove myself to the gym.

And I walked. And used the weight machines. And walked some more. And I could feel the lactic acid or rust or dust or whatever it is that builds up on saggy muscles burning, but it was a pretty nice burn, actually.

I was sore the next morning, but nothing extraordinarily painful for not working out in lets-not-even-talk-about-how-many months.

And the next day, I walked five blocks to lunch and got a healthy sandwich from the hippie bread store. And walked a couple of extra blocks on the way back.

Today we spent more than 9 hours in the car to drive back to my hometown, Indianapolis, to attend a basketball tournament. After what felt like a lifetime in the car, a nice five-block walk to and from dinner felt pretty good.

And then we went swimming in the hotel pool. More like floating and splashing, but it was movement.

I am determined to warm back up to exercise. Even if it burns.

But I don’t get high. I get sore. I get depressed. I get pissed off that simple things are just so damn hard for me.

A lack of natural coordination pretty much meant I sucked at every single sport I ever attempted. The only thing I could do reasonably well was hit a softball, because let’s face it, you just stand there and time your swing.

I was always the last picked for every game in school. I was the first target in dodgeball and then I would plant my fat ass against the cinder block wall that no doubt contained seven layers of lead paint and tried really hard not to cry. I usually failed at that too.

So anyway, I hate to exercise. And I’ve been off work for three days and have not been to the gym even once, even though it was on the to-do list.

Making salsa was on the to-do list. I got THAT done. Priorities. I haz ‘em.

I am down to one pair of jeans that I can wear since I piled back on half the weight I worked so hard to take off in 2008. I have like, two dozen pairs of pants, and can’t squeeze my chubby cheeks into any of them.

I wear what were supposed to be my fat jeans for two or three days, wash them and wear them another couple of days. To my office. Luckily, my boss has yet to ask me why. I’m hoping she just hasn’t noticed.

I make sure to wear nice underwear every day because surely these overworked jeans will soon unravel into threads and fall off. I’d rather not be wearing granny panties with stretched-out elastic waistbands when that happens.

Last weekend, my dryer died. This was a surprise since I was reasonably sure it’s partner, the washer, would be the first to go. It’s sad when one half of a couple goes before the other. The washer seemed lonely standing there next the decaying corpse of its formerly warm friend.

Out of mercy and respect for their longstanding relationship I had no problem sending my 13-year-old Whirlpool washer and dryer together appliance heaven, even though the washer was still chugging loudly away. Brand new front loaders FTW!

But when the dryer died, that was a clear obstacle to my wash-and-wear jeans situation. The new appliances wouldn’t be delivered until Friday. I hadn’t washed my jeans since Saturday. I was not looking forward to smelling like ass by mid-week and I doubted anyone would believe I spilled ketchup on the exact same spot every single day on each pair of what has to be a wardrobe of the identical pairs of the same faded jeans.

So on Wednesday I figured out that, with just the right top, I could get away with wearing a pair of yoga pants to work. I’m so short that for me, yoga pants are just, pants.

On Thursday I sent my jeans through my washer one last time and then took them to the laundromat to dry them. Laundromats are scary places and I cannot say I missed them over the last 13 years. Jeans went from wet to dry and I didn’t get mugged so I considered myself very lucky.

The point of all this is that I have ballooned to the point that I have ONE THING TO WEAR on the lower half of my body and so I had to wear stretchy pants to work and risk getting assaulted at a sketchy laundromat to maintain the ONE THING with a zipper that I can wear.

And all this drama is the direct result of comforting myself with cannoli and tiramisu every time I have a shitty day and believe me, I have some pretty crap-filled days. Custard and chocolate beat the hell out of Prozac and Klonopin for endorphin building in my brain, and believe me, I take both.

I took Friday off so I could be here when my space-age OMG THEY ARE SO COOL washer and dryer were delivered. Then I was going to go to the gym. But I needed to study for what I sure was a midterm in learning to program this washer that promised to handle my bulky bedding and my whitest whites.

And then I needed to pick up an order from a For Your Pleasure party because, hello, you know. And then it was dinner time and Hoylier came home and I had planned a nice meal and I had all this laundry to do.

So I reasoned that the sweat I worked up scrubbing five years of filth off the laundry room floor was a good cardio for the day.

Yesterday I was determined to do two things: Go to the gym and buy another pair of pants. Then I got the sinfully brilliant idea that walking the mall would be a great way to get my heart rate up AND I could shop for fatty fat-ass pants at the same time.

I am nothing if not a good time manager.

The mall walking went better than expected. I was concerned that I would get too distracted by purses and shoes (fat girls can always find purses and shoes that fit, which is why we commonly obsess about them. I should write a book about this shit) but I really did stay focused and circled the mall three times.

I stopped at Macy’s and found a pair of pants in EXTRA FAT WIDE ASS size that would fit. On sale, no less. I picked them up.

And then put them back on the rack.

If only having ONE THING that covers my thighs and does not have elastic at the waist or ankles isn’t enough incentive to get serious about dropping some of this weight, well then, maybe exposing my silky floral drawers to the other customers in the deli aisle when these jeans disintegrate will do it.

I am wearing these jeans until they fall off, either from being too big or from sheer overuse. And probably the only way to get back into my other pants is to put on the yoga pants and really exercise. Which, as I covered earlier, I hate.

I am way to complicated from a woman with only one pair of jeans.

By deterrents, I really mean stupid excuses. If stupid excuses were currency, I could pay our mortgage with them and have enough left over to get that yacht I always dreamed of. And I’d be sailing it to my private island.

Today’s stupid excuse that almost derailed me: My husband couldn’t find his BlackBerry.

Told you it was stupid.

See, it’s been so long since we’ve been to the gym, that Hoylier couldn’t remember the combination to his locker (this is why I have a key, not a combination lock. And I have several copies of the key because I am awesome at losing things.)

In the span of time since we last actually went to the gym, to which we make a generous donation in the form of our monthly membership dues, Hoylier has acquired a Droid. So his BlackBerry, which is now just for work, has fallen out of favor as the toy du jour. Thus the BlackBerry has become misplaced, most likely in his desk at his office. The locker combination is saved in the now completely uncool BlackBerry.

And he needs the combination to to get his tennis shoes, which have in all likelihood rotted from lack of use languishing in his long-unopened locker. He tells me to just go on without him.

Well, let’s just drive to your office and get your BlackBerry, I suggest.

And that started a whole chain of logical reasons why that was, at best, a shitty proposition, and I finally just said, fine, let’s not go.

Sensing my weakness to just give in and not exercise because my husband has a missing smart phone – which may be the BEST shitty excuse of all time – he took me by the hands, raised me up out of my comfy chair and said, “Oh no, no, no. We’re going.”

He wore another pair of shoes that are comfy for walking and we both did 45 minutes on the treadmill.

This was the breakthrough I think we both needed.

Damn, I’m out of shape. I walked just under 2 miles in 45 minutes and I was sweaty and uncomfortable. And now I’m stiff.

And I am going back tomorrow. With my locker key. And I am eating lettuce for the rest of 2010.

OK, the last part is probably not true. But it feels right. The gym is a helluva appetite suppressant.